<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>contradictions by rannas</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29966886">contradictions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannas/pseuds/rannas'>rannas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Character Study, Getting to Know Each Other, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Killing Game Was A Virtual Reality Simulation (Dangan Ronpa), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Personal Growth, Post-Game(s), Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:40:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,069</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29966886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannas/pseuds/rannas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Time passes. </p><p>Time is supposed to heal all wounds. But it doesn’t heal everything. Ouma and Saihara slowly find moments of comfort in the aftermath of the Killing Game regardless.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Quality Fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>contradictions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>cw: general depictions of mental illness (issues with eating, sleeping, panic attacks, agoraphobia, suicidal thoughts) and a scene with alcohol (and likely underage- but ages are as vague as they are in canon)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Time heals all wounds.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>That’s what they said</em>.</strong>
</p><p>But there isn’t enough time in the world to heal the kind of wounds that are both self-inflicted and forgotten. That awful realization that you sought out the very thing that destroyed you. But that person is gone. Dead. Buried under a new self that was manufactured for a specific purpose. But even then, they didn’t create all of him. They couldn’t. Human beings are too complicated for that. </p><p>They are contradictory. The same way he went under that press very much not wanting to die despite it being very much his own plan and yet woke up somehow wishing he had actually just died. <em> Cruel</em>. He had accepted his own end and yet woke up in that sterile white room. Stark and empty. The only things to greet him are faces he doesn’t care about, poking, prodding, and so much beeping. Time heals the physical wounds at least. The strange remnants of his mind thinking he had been crushed to death manifest in weak legs and arms that wobble instead of working. But with a couple of weeks of stretching, falling, and trying they begin to work again. </p><p>Ouma doesn’t visit the others. He doesn’t watch the last episodes of the game. They give him a book of blank paper, so he doodles instead. Memories. Thoughts. Faces. Ideas. Whatever comes to mind. Sometimes he just runs the pencil so hard across the paper so hard it tears. A brief sense of joy from destruction. Therapists cycle in and out. Mental and physical. He takes the pills they give him and lies like he is built to do. Because whoever existed before doesn’t exist anymore, wouldn’t exist anymore. Any remnants of whoever he used to be scattered to the winds of time and science and primetime television entertainment. It’s fine, he doubts that person was any better than the one currently inhabiting his mind. Danganronpa doesn’t tell him and he doesn’t pry. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes. </em> </b>
</p><p>The news of the game gets to him no matter how much he tries to ignore it. He had failed and yet succeeded all at once. More contradictions. Black and white fused to a murky sort of grey. The game was over. Danganronpa was over. Turned out even rabid and crazed fans had a limit. They were pissed. Team Danganronpa crumbled under the weight of fickle fans and begins firing employees left and right. Shrinking. But rumors overheard from the whispers of the people cycling in and out of his room say they would just lie low, rebrand under a new name and the cycle would begin again. It makes him sick. Danganronpa is just a cockroach that would never die, no matter how splendidly he had sent himself off to his own fake death… it didn’t matter… not to them. </p><p>The contracts they signed have all sorts of clauses about the care and therapy they would receive after leaving the simulation in exchange for interviews and publicity and whatever else Team Danganronpa wanted from them. Apparently, some of the earlier deaths had already been forced into that charade. Amami and Akamatsu, the perfect little media darlings. Attractive and palatable. Likable. Tragic. But the public apparently doesn’t even want them anymore. Not when they now know they had been tricked about the whole thing. Good. His final gambit had failed but clever Saihara had managed to end it in his own way in the end. It makes him boil with frustration and swell with pride all at once. </p><p>The lawyers come and talk to him and he isn’t sure if he isn’t clever enough to understand or just doesn’t care but he can hardly process what they say about the contract he signed in a different life. A different person signed it after all. A person he cannot and does not want to remember. He’s both dead and alive all at once, another contradiction. </p><p>So he takes their deal. Signs away the rehab and therapy for a fat check and the chance to escape this place. Apparently, that’s what the others did as well. It’s what Team Danganronpa wants. To rid themselves of the cast that sullied their name, their legacy. Fine by him. As much as it bothers him to be doing something that Danganronpa wants, getting the hell away from them is even more important. </p><p>Avoiding the others had been easy but now that they were all leaving the facility, they supposedly need a plan or something like that. Akamatsu had apparently not given up the whole ‘let’s all be friends’ desire after waking up so she sets up some meeting for everyone to discuss it. And as much as he wants to avoid the whole group meeting, he gets dragged to it by Amami. Amami, who charms the nurses into letting him in despite Ouma’s insistence of not allowing visitors. There are stares and whispers as he enters the hospital dining hall that serves as their meeting location. Ouma sits on the edge of the group, wrapping himself into a ball, pulling his oversized t-shirt over his leggings, and refusing to look at the rest. 14 of them all gathered here. No Kiibo of course. He isn’t real, he didn’t exist in reality. And no Shirogane. Which of course… even if she was wanted here, she is likely too busy being in deep shit for fucking up such a tried and tested formula to spectacularly get something that had lasted to its 53rd iteration canceled. That thought at least entertains him a bit while he does his best to ignore the others. </p><p>Momota shoots him some looks but doesn’t say a word, too busy with Harukawa. Gonta stares him down but he refuses to meet his gaze. He catches Iruma looking over once but she had the sense to look away. The others didn’t bother. Minus Saihara. Who keeps turning to him with that observant look he always gets when he is trying to figure something out. Part of him craves the attention but another hates that he can even be perceived- yet another contradiction. </p><p>
  <em> Why… why would Saihara even care?  </em>
</p><p>Amami gives some spiel about life after Danganronpa. Not that he spent much time between games but apparently long enough to warn them of all the pitfalls ahead. Ones that would only be made worse by the fact they weren’t just stars of a show, but hated ones. The cast that ruined it all. So it makes sense that finding a place to live or a job wouldn’t be so easy. The destroyed world might have been fake but their future seems just as full of scorched earth and uncertainty. He ignores the pockets of discussion that came up. Thinking about the others is too hard. He just lays his head on his knees and stares into the distance. Amami continues. Apparently, the money from being on two of these things isn’t everything with him, he’d also inherited property from a family that no longer even lived in the country, one Amami doesn’t even remember. An apartment complex with 18 units. No contracts, no questions asked. A place to live without having to untangle the mysteries of their former selves and pasts they would never remember. Convenient. Stupidly so. A recreation of their living situation from the game in the real world. But avoiding contracts and leases seemed to be a good enough deal. </p><p>Of course, Amami is filthy rich. Ouma wonders if that's why he auditioned. Boredom from a life of luxury, craving some sort of excitement that could only be found in a virtual game of life or death broadcast for the world to see. Maybe. Like his own past though, he doesn’t care. </p><p>He’s not sure if that sentiment is shared but the others do seem interested in the offer. After all, the people in this room are the only ones that still existed that they knew. The faces and names from their memories all faked. In some twisted way, they are all each other had in this world. And yet they also barely know each other, only spending a few days or weeks in some virtual world together. They are everything and nothing to each other all at once. </p><p>Ouma needs an escape from this hospital and he is tired of planning and thinking and being one play ahead of everyone else. For once, he would just take the path of least resistance. Being together, being with this group of people, he’s not sure how he feels about that. He misses having the reassurance of DICE. That there is some sort of home for him… some sort of family to return to… but those are just stories planted in his head. The Ouma Kokichi out of the simulation has only the people in this room. People he had pushed to the edge, people who had grown to hate him just like he planned. But a place to go after leaving this hospital is too hard to turn down, familiarity might be painful but dealing with strangers- the unknown. Terrifying. </p><p>The others talk amongst themselves. Ouma remains on the fringes barely listening, avoiding their gazes. A stark contrast from the game when he interjected and intervened whenever he could. There’s nothing to prove anymore. And there’s no point in playing along with this whole group thing. </p><p>“No roommates?” Ouma calls out, looking up at Amami. </p><p>Amami shrugs, “Only if you want. But they just have one bedroom each.”</p><p>“Perfect. Count me in or whatever I don’t care. Bye.” And he leaves, skipping away and returning to his hospital room, ignoring the feeling of several pairs of eyes watching his back as he does. But first, he gives the nurse his most menacing of glares, threatening her to never let anyone else in again. She doesn’t. He spends the last few weeks in the hospital alone. Drawing or staring into the ceiling, trying to not imagine it pressing down on him. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes. </em> </b>
</p><p>He still lies to the therapists but they’ve mentally checked out. Probably counting down the days until their last Danganronpa check, to the day they can go treat normal people who didn’t willfully sign up for a virtual killing game and then bitch about the trauma they got from it. </p><p>It’s spring when they are cleared to leave the hospital, or kicked out really. It is abundantly clear just how done with them Danganronpa is. No profit from characters no one likes anymore, the season everyone hates. Cherry blossoms float through the air. It’s Spring, new growth, and new beginnings. It’s gross and symbolic and Ouma hates it, crushing the petals beneath his shoes as he walks. The others travel in small groups, helping each other with the boxes from their past given to them by Danganronpa as well as the things that they had bought for their new apartments. He imagines the others had actually bonded some during their time in that hospital, visiting and commiserating. </p><p>Ouma keeps to himself. He had only received one box of clothes from Team Danganronpa, moving would be easy. There is nothing but endless stretches of time and more money than he knows what to do with to figure out the rest. He arrives at the complex last and hears everyone wrapped into a group argument over who gets the more convenient units on the first floor. So he yells out that he is taking the top floor and Amami can bring him his key later, runs up, finds the unit farthest from the stairs at the end of the hall, and lock-picks his way in. Problem solved, interaction with the group kept to a minimum. </p><p>Hoshi and Saihara also end up on the top floor. Hoshi probably because he also likes keeping to himself. Saihara probably had volunteered so no one else had to. A people pleaser even if it meant there is some empty room on one of the first two floors. He looks around his new apartment. It’s better than a hospital room at least. He can cover the white walls here, and the dark carpet is a nice change. He lies flat on the carpet of the empty apartment and digs his fingers into the fibers, spreads out his arms and legs, and stares up at the  ceiling imagining shapes within it and trying to not imagine it lowering, pressing down. He’s moderately successful.</p><p>A new beginning he guesses. Or just another prison. No different from his room in that virtual school or the hospital room he woke up in. A new place to exist. But without any goals or plans, what is he even supposed to do? </p><p>Over the next week, he gets to work with filling the space. Slowly his apartment becomes less empty. First he gets essentials. A futon to sleep on. A TV. Some chairs. And then some stuff he might not need but still wants. The Danganronpa hush fund as he likes to call it giving him the money he needs to fuel his strange existence. He doesn’t go too stupid though, he needs that account to last. He listened to enough of Amami’s speech to be wary of trying to have any sort of life after this mess. Getting a job with the name Ouma Kokichi was likely to be hell so the money needs to last until he had some way to live in this world.</p><p>Getting a phone contract is bad enough, the sneers and comments from the employees piss him off but he signs even though he wonders if he even needs a phone. He never uses it anyhow. No one to call and no reason to explore the horrors of the internet and whatever presence he has there (he’s curious but that impulse is stifled by his outright hatred of seeing anything Danganronpa). </p><p>He quickly realizes the beauty of a well-crafted disguise. Hair in a ponytail. Face mask. Sunglasses. Brightly colored baggy tops that are so eye-catching that it makes people so self-conscious about staring they actually look away. It works. He stops getting as many stares from passerbys and whispers about Danganronpa that make his blood boil and stomach turn. </p><p>Most things he buys online. Boxes appear in the hallway and he slowly fills his space. He goes out at weird times to avoid the others, it works for the most part. Sometimes he sees Saihara in the hall, looking like he wants to say something but before he gets the chance Ouma escapes into the sanctuary of his apartment. Gonta knocks on his door sometimes, he could see his kind eyes through the peephole. But he never answers. He stays in his room alone just like he did in the facility. Just like he did some nights in the simulation. The nights he planned and planned, desperate to end the game. </p><p>In this world outside the simulation, he just… exists. No plans, no thinking. He wonders if he really wants to live. Twirls a knife and dances it through his fingers, wonders if it would just be simpler to plunge it into a vein and let death take its course. But as much as Ouma doesn’t really care about being alive, he also doesn’t really want to die. Even if he imagines the knife piercing his skin or thinks about downing the entire bottle of pills he was given when they left, he never does it, wants, and doesn’t want whatever this was to end. Contradictions that create the purgatory he makes out of this one-bedroom apartment. </p><p>After about a month, he finds Saihara standing in the hall blocking his path. His hands are full with groceries and there is no escape back to his place without addressing him. It’s 2 am, and no one should be up but of course, Saihara has to prove him wrong (even out of the game he must have kept that pesky little hobby of his). </p><p>“Oh fancy finding you here Saihara-chan!” Ouma chirps with a plastic grin, purposefully looking to the side of Saihara’s gaze. </p><p>“Ouma-kun…” There’s something oddly concerned in his tone that makes Ouma's throat dry up. But he doesn’t continue. Just stands in the way and stares at him. </p><p>Ouma pouts, “You’re kinda in my way.”</p><p>Saihara frowns, still not moving, “Everyone’s worried about you.” He doubts that even if it doesn’t sound like Saihara is lying. </p><p>“That’s nice for them.” Ouma rolls his eyes. “Sorry your little happy ending with everyone is all ruined, but my ice cream is melting.”</p><p>Saihara pauses for too long and considers looking him up and down as his hands clench and unclench, “Let me help you.” Saihara reaches out. </p><p>Ouma knows he should refuse… should tell him to fuck off but… he doesn’t. He hands him some bags (his arm is pretty damn sore from carrying it all up two flights of stairs). He unlocks his door and lets him in. Watches as Saihara’s keen eyes take in the mismatched tapestries hanging unevenly from the walls, the brightly colored knick-knacks lining the open surfaces in every corner of his apartment, colored lights twinkling, Ouma knows it’s garish and obnoxious but that was kind of the whole point. To Saihara’s credit, he doesn’t comment, merely offers to put away his groceries and politely asks where everything goes while Ouma sits on the counter swinging his legs and wondering just why the hell he was in here and just doing his chores in the middle of the night as if that was a normal thing to do. Always full of surprises, Saihara Shuichi, tricky, hard to figure out. </p><p>“Thank you,” Saihara says after finishing putting things away.</p><p>“What are you thanking me for Saihara-chan?” Ouma’s eyes narrow, curious as to just why Saihara is here, acting like this. Almost like nothing had happened. </p><p>Saihara’s hands fidget nervously, “For letting me in.” </p><p>“<em>Eh… </em> you seem so dead set on being my personal servant, how could I refuse? You really are a masochist after all huh?” </p><p>“No, it’s….” Saihara fumbles. A ghost of a smile creeps onto Ouma’s face. He misses this. Misses watching people react to his words. Misses Saihara’s reactions in particular. Maybe even misses Saihara. Misses those times they hung out in the game before everything turned to shit. Misses the resurgence of that weird warm feeling he got around him, one that both scared and excited him all at once. More contradictions. </p><p> “Why were you out in the hall in the middle of the night <em> huh </em> Saihara-chan?” </p><p>“...” Saihara frowns, “Couldn’t sleep. Sometimes… I uh, just pace down the hall at night to collect my thoughts.”</p><p>Ouma looks down at his chewed-up nails, “And here I thought you’d be mister well adjusted.”</p><p>“Yeah… No, not really. Not at all.” Saihara’s face is pinched in pain and Ouma isn’t sure how to respond. Maybe it is a bit presumptuous to assume that he is the only one struggling to exist in this world. “I’m….sorry, Ouma-kun.” Saihara continues. </p><p>Silence hangs between them for a moment, heavy and wrought with some strange energy that makes Ouma’s hands twitch. Saihara still stands by the fridge, looking away from Ouma perched on the counter, “Thanking me and now apologizing. You really are weird Saihara-chan.” He replies, quiet and thoughtful. </p><p>“I… well...it was selfish of me to want to come in here.” There’s a weak sort of smile on his face, and Ouma grinds his teeth. </p><p>“Putting away my shit is selfish?” He tilts his head. Saihara looks lost in his own thoughts, another too-long gap in their back and forth. </p><p>“I really just wanted to see you… you’re never around.” Ouma shrugs. He’s a detective or was programmed to be at least. He should realize that his absence was intentional, surely he is still intelligent out of the game. Even if part of him wants to untangle what parts of Saihara are real and what parts are the product of Danganronpa’s meddling, the other part doesn’t want to know at all. Doesn’t want to have to figure out if those messy feelings from the game translate from the VR Saihara to the one standing in his kitchen shuffling awkwardly. “And I guess… I feel guilty.” Saihara continues, looking right at him. </p><p>Ouma pauses, and echoes, “Guilty?” </p><p>“Yeah… I didn’t realize what you were trying to do. You… just wanted to end the game. And I’m sorry… sorry things turned out the way they did. Sorry, I thought the worst of you. Sorry, I ruined your plan.” Ouma fiddles with the string of his oversized hoodie. This is definitely not what he had expected. He’s not sure he deserves an apology, not sure if he really wants one. After all, Saihara thinking the worst of him was just part of the plan (even if part of him desperately had wished Saihara would have seen through it- but he had been too good of a liar for that). Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure he’d do it all again. As painful and awful as it was. That’s just the kind of person he is or at least what he was programmed to be. Maybe he does want some acknowledgment that they never gave him enough credit. Saihara deserves an apology maybe, but one he’s not quite ready to give. He deserves an explanation too, but Ouma still hasn’t allowed himself to process everything enough for that either. </p><p>“I don’t accept.” Saihara’s face falls, “Don’t look all mopey just--- I think it’s stupid to apologize for shit that doesn’t matter anymore.” Saihara looks up and Ouma can practically hear the words ‘but it matters to me’ come dancing off Saihara’s tongue, so he stops him before he can talk. “Just-- come by and do more chores for me if you feel that guilty I guess.” </p><p>“So I can come visit you Ouma-kun?” Saihara looks eager almost, eyes lit up. And Ouma bites hard on his lip. Dangerous. He wants to let him in, leave that proverbial door open. And yet the contradictory part of his brain wants to shove Saihara out on his ass so he doesn’t dig up all these confusing feelings he can’t quite handle yet. Refuses to handle. </p><p>He swirls the words around his tongue before finally responding, “I guess. If you really miss seeing my face <em> that </em> much Saihara-chan. It’s not like I sleep all that much either.” Saihara smiles. Bright and sad and complicated all at once, layers of little contradictions. </p><p>And so began their little strange routine. Small knocks on the door signal that Saihara has come by. Sometimes he opens and sometimes he doesn’t (most times he does). Saihara never questions the times he doesn’t open the door, even if Ouma knows he wants to. If Saihara starts asking questions, Ouma tells him to leave. So he doesn’t. Sometimes Ouma makes tea (he starts buying Saihara’s favorites just for that reason). Sometimes they turn on the TV, staring at it and not really watching. Sometimes Saihara joins him laying on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Ouma buys a projector with stars. So in a way, it’s just like the dome. His apartment, his new prison. There’s almost always music playing in the background from his speaker. Buzzy electronic beats he doesn’t know the name of but they make his brain hum in an almost pleasant sort of way. Bright flashing lights, colorful tapestries, and music all working to distract his brain from the awful thoughts about the game that creep back in. He’s restless and exhausted all the time, craving something to do and having no energy to do it. <em> Contradictory. </em>Saihara being around makes him forget for a little bit at least. Ouma loves him and hates him all at once. </p><p>Sometimes Saihara stays for hours, sometimes he turns and leaves almost as soon as he comes. It’s always at night of course. He assumes Saihara is still attempting to be an actual person, mingling with the others, being the centerpiece of the group like he was in the simulation. He doesn’t ask nor does Saihara tell him.</p><p>Days and weeks lose any sort of real meaning. Ouma no longer has a sense of the passage of time. He stays up until he can’t anymore. Sleeps for pockets of time to keep enough energy to exist. Eats when he’s so hungry he can’t stand it. Opens the door sometimes when he hears Saihara’s distinctive knock. Sometimes his presence is calming, eases the turbulent storm of thoughts in his mind. Sometimes it hurts, so much he can barely look at him. Sometimes it pisses him off so much he wants to claw and scratch at his own skin. But it's welcome all the same, a break in the endless monotony he created for himself.  </p><p>At first, they don’t talk much at all. Small greetings, minor questions. Small talk. Nothing big. Nothing heavy. Nothing about Danganronpa or death games or murder. But the presence of the things unsaid hangs heavy over them regardless, pressing down on every moment of lingered eye contact, every stilted conversation. But slowly talking seems to feel less painful, less awkward even if Ouma knows that they are both avoiding so many things. </p><p>One night, Saihara knocks on the door and Ouma can see the red lining the whites of his eyes, making them more striking than usual, wetness clinging to his long lashes. Ouma isn’t sure how to react, and doubts he’s equipped to provide comfort. So he lets him in and just makes tea. They sit on the floor, leaning against the wall (Ouma thinks about how he really needs to get a couch at some point).</p><p>“So… what’s with the face Saihara-chan?” Golden eyes grow wider in response but Ouma figures he hears the softness in his tone and can at least figure out his intention, and Ouma’s pretty sure he’s right because words start pouring out of Saihara’s mouth, like water out of a broken dam. </p><p>Ouma listens while Saihara talks. Listens to how some days he can’t stand to see anyone. Listens to how he replays the game over and over in his head wondering at how his mistakes hurt the others. Listens to how Saihara has not actually left the building (too scared of being recognized, just saying it made his hands shake) and the others alternate bringing him groceries once they found out he wasn’t eating. Listens to how Saihara is afraid to let the others know just how messed up he really is, feels like they need him to be strong. The conversation falls into silence when Saihara can’t find the words, and Ouma just watches as he stares into space or stares at him as his mind works. It’s a rambling and meandering kinda talk like Ouma is just some therapist. Albeit one who gives zero real inputs. Although he has a feeling Saihara is okay with that, maybe his hums and nods are all Saihara really wants right now. </p><p>When he cries, Ouma wishes he could reach over. Offer a hand, comfort, something. He wants to wrap his arms around him and tell Saihara the game is over and carrying the burden of the others is no longer his job (nor should it have ever been). But Ouma Kokichi isn’t built like that. He craves that intimacy, that connection, but it scares him all the same. Betrayed by his own contradictory mind. So he doesn’t, just wraps his arms around his knees and listens to Saihara, carefully watching every flicker of emotion crossing his face. </p><p>Light peaks through the gaps in Ouma’s curtains (fully blackout his ass… but he is too lazy to return them) and he realizes they’ve been up all night.</p><p>Saihara glances over to the window, “Oh, it’s morning.”</p><p>“Great deduction Ultimate Detective.” Ouma drawls, exhaustion finally catching up to him. </p><p>Saihara mutters in return, “Sorry for keeping you up.”</p><p><em> Another apology </em>… “I don’t really sleep that much anyhow.”</p><p>“You said that before… can I ask why not?” He sounds timid, but even so Ouma tenses at the question. </p><p>“Nightmares,” Ouma replies. Simple. Not a lie. Not the whole truth. Because he hates the nights he has good dreams as much as he hates the one where he is under that press again. Hates that in sleep he loses all control. Hates that dreams where DICE is real and Danganronpa isn’t hurt just as much. Hates the dreams of some sort of fantasy life where he's a gentlemen thief and Saihara is the dashing detective chasing him. Hates the dreams of Saihara smiling at him, loving him as if none of this ever happened, in a way the real Saihara never would love him. </p><p>“Yeah me too.” Saihara looks over and they sit in silence for even longer. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes.</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s summer now. The AC isn’t strong enough to completely dispel the heat pulsing in from the windows. He’s on the ground, drinking in the hazy waves of warmth circulating around his apartment, sweat beading on his exposed skin. It’s too hot to wear anything but boxers until the sun goes down and he gets a reprieve. </p><p>There’s a knock on his door. He opens it, just a crack, the chain lock still on. It’s Saihara holding some sort of box. </p><p>“Um, hi.” The other boy says, and Ouma wants to laugh. It’s so normal and familiar as if their meetings are normal and planned and not just two boys who cant sleep at normal times commiserating during the strange hours they kept. “I bought you a fan. I ordered an extra one in case… you needed one.” And despite it being strange that Saihara is visiting him during the day for once, the idea of a fan is too tempting to resist. It’s a strange sort of present but thoughtful as always. </p><p>He rips open the box and immediately gets to work plugging it in, desperate for some relief from the heat. Ouma however forgets that he had been lying around practically naked until he sees Saihara awkwardly looking away from him, a mix of concern and embarrassment written on his face. Truth be told he feels a bit awkward about it as well but as messed up as he is, Ouma can still lie and feign confidence with ease. Even if he knows Saihara can see the way his stomach caves in and ribs protrude a little too much because he forgets to eat way too often. </p><p>“Nishishi don’t be all shy Saihara-chan. It’s hot. I can see your nasty sweat stains.” He lays back down on the carpet letting the air from the fan blow over him. “You should join me.” And to his surprise, he does. Saihara peels off his sweat-soaked shirt and joins him on the ground. He looks away before he can let himself look, take in more of Saihara. He wants to and doesn’t want to. </p><p>Both of them lie splayed across the carpet the fan blowing somewhat cooler air across the space but still the heat is oppressive, bearing down on them. A downside of picking the top floor, heat rises(or something like that). </p><p>“Ouma-kun…?”</p><p>“Hmmm?” He hasn’t slept much lately and almost had drifted off. </p><p>“Are you ever going to talk to the others?” Saihara asks.</p><p>Ouma is too tired to be angry, to lash out at such an intrusive question. It’s part of their unspoken agreement to not ask these sorts of things. Maybe Saihara has confused the vulnerability in laying together partially naked with emotional vulnerability,  “Does it really matter?”</p><p>“I just… feel like you should at least try.”</p><p>Ouma warns, “You aren’t in charge of me Saihara-chan.” </p><p>“No, you’re right… I’m sorry.” A loaded silence hangs over them, he can see Saihara fidgeting. He probably expects Ouma to ask him to leave but he doesn’t. Not this time. He accepts the apology even though he hates them. It's too hot to be angry anyhow. </p><p>Ouma looks over at Saihara. “You still haven't left the building have you?”</p><p>“No,” He says in barely over a whisper. </p><p>“If I talk to the others… will you leave the building?” Ouma asks even softer than before, a miracle he can be heard over the buzzing of the fan. </p><p>He hears a sharp inhale from Saihara, “Yes.” </p><p>Ouma responds voice lowered dangerously, “Don’t be reckless Saihara-chan.” He almost feels bad for suggesting it, for pushing too far but maybe that is just how he is built, Ouma Kokichi always pushing just a bit too much. But Saihara doesn’t look mad. <em>No</em>. He’s looking over at Ouma with a soft sort of look that makes him feel like he's drowning. </p><p>“No... this is… good. A challenge for both of us right?” Ouma hums in response. Trying to ignore how his heart fluttered at the word ‘us’ and how much he loves the idea of there being something that is just theirs. Even if it is just some silly deal. In a way, it's a game Ouma thinks, just as much as cards or rock paper scissors. </p><p>Neither of them moves for a long time. Neither of them fulfills their little arrangement quite yet either, but it’s fine. It’s another game of theirs, after all, one without time limits. No winners or losers, just the prospect of a challenge. It feels oddly nice to have a goal again. Even a simple one. Because as much as he doesn’t want to talk to the others, he thinks disappointing Saihara would be worse. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes.</em> </b>
</p><p>The leaves begin to change and fall. He’s used to his little routine. The endless cycle of nothing that has been his life for months now. He still doesn’t really want to live, still doesn’t really want to die. Ouma holds himself underwater in the bath until he can’t breathe, imagines it ending, but then comes up gasping for air. He thinks about how Saihara would notice that he was gone, that the others now expected to at least see him around. So he can’t just disappear. He doesn’t really want to either. </p><p>He sees the others occasionally when he leaves to run errands or go for walks. Their conversations are brief and meaningless but it’s something. Akamatsu nods at him with a look of approval. Iruma murmurs insults as they pass each other and Ouma reciprocates. Momota pats his shoulder and grins. Gonta smiles at him and he thinks it's worth any awkwardness for that. He doesn’t deserve it but it feels good all the same. It’s at least an attempt at the deal he made with Saihara. He knows that Saihara still hasn’t gone outside, but he doesn’t mind at all. There was no time limit on their little arrangement. </p><p>Saihara comes almost daily now. They don’t just sit. They eat meals together. If you could call them that. Mostly prepared food heated up but it’s better than before when Ouma would forget to eat for days on end. Actual cooking requires a sort of effort and focus he just can’t muster. And neither can Saihara. But it’s enough just to eat at more regular intervals. </p><p>Ouma gets back to his normal weight, and maybe even a little more. Hard to tell, but looking in the mirror he can see how much almost a year has changed him. His hair so long he almost always has it pulled back (although he pulls out strands in the front to twist around his fingers and keep his hands occupied) but his face looks a little rounder. So does Saihara’s. There’s a softness in his angular face now, his clothes seem to be more filled out as well. His hair is different too. Ouma can tell he’s definitely had it cut (likely by one of the others, he’s sure Saihara would tell him if he left the building) but it’s shorter in the front and a bit longer in the back. Sometimes it’s tied up. It oddly suits him. </p><p>Sometimes they play games. He orders a chess set and some cards just for that reason. They rotate through games not always finishing if they don’t feel like it. An unfinished chess game in one corner, an unfinished monopoly game in the other, they get around to it eventually when it feels right. </p><p>One night Saihara brings a bottle of wine. Apparently, it was from Momota (and from the sounds of it- that whole thing might be an issue but that wasn’t his business- he has his own maladaptive coping and Momota must have his). Ouma doesn’t remember ever drinking or being drunk. He’s not even sure if his age is as fabricated as the rest of him. But he doesn’t remember ever being old enough to do so. Whether that was true or there were some lost memories is something he’d never know, but it can’t hurt to try. </p><p>It tastes absolutely awful, dry and wet, bitter and sweet. Gross contradictions. So he just drinks it faster so he can wash it away with soda. But it rushes to his head. Fuzzy and dizzy like the world is shifting around him. It’s pleasant and scary all at once. And the bottle is empty way too soon. Saihara looks wobbly too, his eyes lidded and speech slurred. </p><p>They collapse on Ouma’s newly acquired couch, laughing at nothing as the world spins slightly around them. Saihara leans over, resting his head on Ouma's shoulder. He stiffens at the contact but melts after a moment. “Ouma-kun… I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He mutters into Ouma's shirt. His breath catches in his throat. What can he say… what even is there to say. He settles for running his hands through Saihara’s dark hair, the other boy giving him a dazed sort of smile in return, eyes crinkled on the sides. </p><p>Saihara’s eyes flutter and he thinks he’s about to fall asleep, so Ouma whispers, “Saihara-chan… you can’t say those things… or I’ll fall in love with you all over again.” But Saihara isn’t actually asleep because he reaches up and grabs his hand, stopping him from mindlessly playing with his hair. And for a moment they just stare, lost in each other's gazes until the haze of alcohol takes over and their consciousness fades.  </p><p>They fall asleep on the couch, slightly entangled. Pleasant and comfortable until they wake up sore, heads aching, and throats dry and screaming from dehydration. Ouma isn’t sure how he feels about alcohol but he knows he doesn’t mind waking up with Saihara’s body pressed against his own. And if Saihara remembers what he said that night under the influence of a half bottle of wine drank way too fast, he doesn’t bring it up. Ouma’s glad that he doesn’t and wishes he would all the same.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes. </em> </b>
</p><p>Snow begins to fall. They come to understand each other more than Ouma had ever expected in these new lives of theirs. Saihara realizes that Ouma hates apologies, does not want words or platitudes to soothe him. So Saihara starts to act whenever they argue or things get uncomfortable. He comes bearing gifts of Ouma’s favorite soda or treats when Ouma is angry. He’d fold and put away Ouma’s laundry or do his dishes when he is sad or anxious. Somehow Saihara figures out the exact ways to let Ouma know that his feelings are being recognized. <em> Mostly</em>. There’s a fair bit of trial and error. Days where Ouma snaps and Saihara digs in his heels in return. But they somehow always manage to figure it out. To come to some understanding even if it’s over something dumb like a way too competitive round of chess or bonding over some dumb movie. Like celestial bodies, the contradictory push and pull keep them in constant orbit of one another.</p><p>Ouma imagines it’s hard for Saihara not to apologize, not to drown him in words every time something goes wrong. Because it’s hard for him to try and do just that in return. Because Saihara is like a plant turning to the sunlight, but he turns to positive words and affirmations as his sun, and apologies and explanations are like water. That’s just how Saihara’s brain works. And even if it’s not always easy, even if part of him wants to lash out and lie, he resists sometimes. Says the things he knows Saihara wants to hear sometimes. Because the words of kindness and love for Saihara aren’t lies even if he knew it would be oh so much easier if they were. Because it’s worth seeing Saihara’s face light up whenever he does.  </p><p>Despite all of this, Saihara stops showing up. Stops knocking at his door. And Ouma wonders if he had done something wrong. If he pissed Saihara off. Or maybe Ouma had finally just bored him. He had visited daily, spending almost too much time together, and now... to just not show up for three days… </p><p>He doesn’t understand. Ghosting was hardly his style. Was<em> he okay? Maybe he had gone outside finally and something bad happened… maybe Ouma was to blame for bringing up that little deal back in summer… </em> Dark thoughts race through his mind as he finds himself approaching Saihara’s door. He knocks, and he hears something, muffled, he takes that as an invitation. His hands shake as he picks open the door with a pin he pulls out of his hair. It’s hard to breathe and he feels like somehow for some reason- he is going to die. <em> Again. </em>It’s stupid and irrational, but his heart pounding in his chest doesn’t care, doesn’t listen to his mind. He feels like he’s dying and he doesn’t want to die. Really doesn’t want to. Because… he wants to see Saihara. Wants Saihara to be alright. Wants to be alright himself. </p><p>He finally manages to open the door, and the pleasant scent he’s come to associate with Saihara comes over him and slowly his heart settles and he finds himself able to control his breathing. Ouma realizes despite having spent so much time together, he’s never actually been to Saihara’s apartment. It’s both clean and messy all at once, a microcosm of contradictions. No clutter and random object’s like Ouma’s but still, there are piles of clothes and unwashed dishes scattered about, books lying around in various places. Organized chaos as opposed to Ouma's just general chaos. </p><p>He finds Saihara in bed, ashen and coughing, looking like he had been run over by an exisal (if they were real- which they weren’t). </p><p>“Ouma-kun... “ He chokes out, before coughing again. His nose is red and running and there's a giant pile of tissues on the floor by his bed. </p><p>“Aww my beloved Saihara-chan looks so gross!” He teases as he places the back of his hand on Saihara’s forehead. <em> Burning. </em>“How ever did you get sick <em>Shumai</em>?”</p><p>“Akamatsu-san was sick and we were hanging out… so…” Saihara answers, sounding quite incoherent. Dazed. </p><p>“Have you eaten?” Saihara shakes his head. “Drank anything?” Another shake. Ouma sighs. “What will I do with you? You can’t just go off and die on me you know.”</p><p>“I -- it’s not that bad.” Saihara struggles to say.</p><p>Ouma clicks his tongue, responding menacingly, “You <em> know </em>I can tell when you are lying Saihara-chan.” Saihara doesn’t answer, just looks defeated and pathetic as Ouma announces he would fix it. So he goes to the kitchen and finds cans of soup in the cabinet and begins heating that up. He also makes some tea. Water tastes extra gross when you’re sick and the warm liquid should help Saihara’s throat he reasons. He taps at the counter, still full of nervous energy from before when his mind was assuming the worst. Assuming that Saihara was gone. Assuming that Ouma could just drop dead in the middle of the hallway. Irrational. Did he depend on Saihara that much now? That the idea of losing him could allow anxiety to creep up and take a hold on him. Both a scary and welcome thought— needing someone like that. </p><p>He sits on the floor and watches as Saihara eats. He brings him a cold washcloth to put on his head. He thinks about the fake memories in his mind of helping the members of DICE when they got sick and his stomach curdles. None of that was real. But this is. Saihara is real. The only steady presence in his new life. </p><p>“Ouma-kun. Don’t leave” Saihara mutters before falling back asleep. Ouma knows he can’t leave. He wants to. Wants to run before he gets even closer. And he also never wants to leave. Wants to believe he deserves this. Deserves Saihara’s kindness and patience. He wonders what Saihara is getting out of all of this. Surely Ouma's presence isn’t all that calming. He fidgets too much. Teases when he shouldn’t. Lashes out when he feels like it. Lies when he wants to. He wonders if Saihara realizes just how much Ouma cares about him… needs him… so much that the idea of losing him sent him into a panic. </p><p>Saihara starts shaking in his sleep, muttering, sweating. A nightmare. Something he knows all too well. He wonders what Saihara sees in his nightmares. Ouma sees the metal of the hydraulic press closing in. Harukawa's murderous gaze staring at him from over the sights of a crossbow. He sees Gonta crying. Iruma struggling for air. He sees Saihara telling him that no one wants him around, that he must just be that kind of person, one who should be alone. </p><p>He’s certain and uncertain of what he wants to do all at once, but he goes for it all the same. He climbs into the bed and rubs circles on Saihara’s back through his sweaty shirt. <em> It’s okay… It’s okay… </em>He thinks knowing that Saihara can’t read his thoughts, maybe it is really just for his own benefit. He doesn’t mean to but he falls asleep next to him. And when he wakes up, Saihara is across from him, heads and toes curled towards each other like parenthesis, two halves of a whole. </p><p>He gets sick soon after (predictably enough). Coughing and sneezing and fever. He whines a lot more than Saihara did. Makes crazier demands. He can’t help himself. He hates being sick. Feeling weak. But Saihara doesn’t leave his side the whole time despite that. Brings him soup and soda and (almost) everything he asks for. </p><p>Saihara climbs next to him in his futon one night and some nights after. They never discuss it or talk about it. It just becomes a thing. And suddenly he doesn’t worry so much about nightmares because they aren’t as bad when there’s someone there with soothing words and touches to ease you back to sleep. Someone there to comfort when they wake up panicked and yelling. It’s hardly peaceful, sleeping with someone who is also plagued with nightmares, anxiety, and insomnia but it’s oddly comforting all the same.  </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes. </em> </b>
</p><p>One day, Saihara knocks on the door. There are bags in his hands and triumph in his golden eyes. “I bought these. At the store. Myself.” He sounds out of breath, as if he had sprinted all the way back from the store and up two flights of stairs (which... he probably did). </p><p>Ouma grins back, “Proud of you Saihara-chan. So what was <em>worthy</em> of being bought for such a momentous occasion?” It has been half a year since that little deal of theirs. Their little game of countering their fears. Ouma still struggles with the others at times, but he tries. Even spends more than 5 minutes at a time with a couple of them. Baby steps. The bag is from a store across the street, one that rarely had many people in it. But Saihara had still managed to leave the building. It’s still a big deal. Something worth celebrating. </p><p>Saihara shuffles awkwardly, “Oh, um… well I thought it might be fun to make chocolates.” </p><p>“Like for us to eat or to poison our enemies?” Ouma laughs, wondering just why Saihara had picked such an activity. He doesn’t even seem to care for candy or chocolate much. But then he remembers it’s February. He’s not sure which day, his phone is dead and forgotten most of the time so he never keeps track. A waste of money. He bites down on his lower lip wondering (hoping) that maybe it really is some sort of Valentine's thing. </p><p>“Uh.. no just for us. Didn’t buy any poison.” Ouma beams, he loves when Saihara randomly plays along. It always surprises him. Makes him love Saihara even more (if that was even possible).</p><p>“Oh well… another time!” He winks and they begin to attempt to figure out how to make chocolates. They mostly make a mess until Saihara looks up a recipe on his phone. But each of them manages to get something in the molds in the end. It’s chaotic and messy and full of laughter. Something he couldn’t even imagine doing a year ago. Joking and feeling like an actual person... not just some manufactured being full of despair and trauma. It's nice. </p><p>“So now we test them riiiight?” Ouma taps his foot.</p><p>“Yeah… should we… try the others first and then our own. Or maybe we should each try the same batch and then the other--” Saihara trails off as he notices that Ouma has already snatched one of the chocolates he had made and was holding it in front of Saihara’s mouth. He glances up and down at Saihara’s batch and he gets it, taking a piece and holding it up in front of Ouma’s mouth in turn.</p><p>“Now we can eat them at the same time! This better be the best thing I’ve ever tasted! 3-2-1- Go!” Chocolates are gently placed into each other's mouths. It’s not the best thing he’s eaten. Not even close. It does taste like chocolate but it’s also kind of gritty. </p><p>“Wooow this is so tasty.” Ouma’s eyes widen.</p><p>Saihara chews, looking down at him thoughtfully, “Don’t lie Ouma-kun.” </p><p>“Aww, you know me so well.” He pouts and takes one of his own chocolates to try. It’s awful. Somehow it’s slimy and too sweet. He giggles. “Yuck! Guess we both kinda suck at this.”</p><p>Saihara cracks up laughing. Likely some release of nervous pent-up energy from his venture outside. He's laughing in a way Ouma’s never heard before. Uncontrolled laughter where he grips at his stomach like he’s about to burst. Pleasant and infectious. Ouma laughs too and soon they are falling over each other in the kitchen, holding each other up when they just cannot stop laughing, the remainder of the chocolates completely forgotten. </p><p>
  <b> <em>Time passes. </em> </b>
</p><p>He thinks about that day a lot as winter turns to spring. About the feeling of Saihara's fingers pressing a chocolate to his lips. Wonders if it means anything. If Saihara bringing chocolates to make around Valentine's was really something. Silly thoughts. They’ve slept in the same bed, talked and touched, and existed together for almost a year now. There’s no denying they’ve become close but they’ve never exchanged any confessions of feelings beyond that. Feelings that Ouma both wants to shout from the rooftops and lock away and never talk about all at once. It's too soon and not soon enough. </p><p>It’s March. Almost spring again, the anniversary of being freed from the hospital. The last time they had been under the care of Team Danganronpa. He hasn’t heard from them or about them. Not that he wanted to but there’s always that tiny worry in the back of his mind that one day they would suddenly reappear and the world would go dark and the thoughts of dying that were far less frequent now would come rushing back along with it. But he pushes those fears away. For now at least. He has better things to occupy his mind with. Small exchanges with the others in the hall. Meals with Saihara. Pleasant things. Moments that he feels that it's worth being alive for.</p><p>The cherry blossoms are falling again, he doesn’t mind them as much this year. That bitter and sad boy leaving the hospital a year ago wasn’t gone, just smaller, a memory that would never leave, a burden he would always carry. Wrapped away inside the bittersweet memories he’s created in his odd little apartment over the past year.</p><p>He hears Saihara’s knock on the door, he opens it (he never leaves it closed- not anymore), “Ouma-kun!”</p><p>“Huh?” He smiles back at him, already drunk on that kind smile of Saihara’s. Never getting enough of Saihara’s presence even if they spent most of every day together now, most nights in the same bed. It’s too much and never enough. </p><p>“I want... to go for a walk in the park. Will you go with me?” Saihara asks, his voice timid but his eyes blazing with determination.  </p><p>Ouma twirls a strand of hair around his finger, “That’s quite a leap Saihara-chan. The park is <em>waaay</em> farther than the store. Don’t be all stupid and reckless like your buddy Momota-chan.”</p><p>“It’s okay. ” Saihara shakes his head, smiling even wider. He reaches out and brushes the back of Ouma’s hand with his own. “I’ll be okay. I’ll be with you.”</p><p>Ouma’s mouth opens and closes several times. And as easily as he can weave words, craft stories, and speak falsehoods, suddenly, his tongue feels heavy in his own mouth, not working. So instead, he takes Saihara’s hand and laces their fingers together, nods, and pulls him along. Out of the apartment, out of the building, out into the bright spring day. </p><p>It’s a confession and not a confession at the same time. Just like he thinks Saihara is ready and not ready for such a venture outside. Ouma is both fine and worried all at once. Hoping there’s something more between them and scared of losing what they already have. He jokes as they walk and tries to keep Saihara’s mind away from the fears and anxieties that come with being out in the public. It’s both selfish and selfless to keep Saihara's attention all on him. Contradictions he doesn’t mind, like Saihara’s cool hand intertwined with his warm one. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Been experimenting a bit with my writing style and aiming to create atmosphere and mood better so hopefully, that comes through and it still is good even if a little bit different. Either way, it's fun to play around and try and be more creative since academic writing and emails are suffering.... </p><p>Happy Saiou day! Love writing these two and seeing so many other people who love them and produce incredible art and fics that I get to enjoy makes me super happy~ </p><p>As for my other unfinished works.... those google doc tabs are open and getting worked on as well. Even though now I also really want to do a longer postgame fic. One day...</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>